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T he Sultana gestured to the map for the thousand and first time, and Rohan restrained a sigh. The map spanned the entirety of the floor in this fortified room, tucked in an almost invisible corridor. The Maghrizi palace had a good number of guests on any given day, and the Sultana’s generosity allowed them to wander as they pleased.

And so the palace also held many well-kept secrets.

“Agrabah,” Rohan said, pointing. Then he pointed to the west. “Hulum.”

He recited the rest of the kingdoms and cities, remembering a time not too long before when he had pored over a much smaller map, his and his brother’s heads pressed together as they charted out their new lives.

“Ah,” the Sultana scolded. “Chin up. Spine straight.”

He remembered Jafar telling him that, too, while he studied the upper-class men and women in the bazaar and the way they strutted about.

Rohan rearranged his posture, feeling like a peacock.

The Sultana nodded. “Better. Do you know how to fight?”

“I—” Rohan stopped. I can kill. What was he supposed to say, that he’d never held a blade in his life? Neither he nor Jafar had. Most of the boys in their village knew how to wield a sword and parry one another, but Baba had never thought it important to let his boys learn.

It would have required too much effort on his part.

“I see,” the Sultana replied, and then pinched her lips tight. “We’ll have to get you a wooden blade soon, then.” She turned to the royal vizier. “Fetch Sharif and tell him to prepare his training swords.”

Rohan said nothing. He wanted to say he was sorry for learning too slowly, for lacking the skills of a prince. Sorry her son was dead and that he was the only option.

But he hadn’t asked to be a prince. She’d insisted.

She pulled out another book, and Rohan’s eyes threatened to fall shut. She thunked it down in front of him. “Read. Until we get you in front of Sharif.”